Stuck in the irksome largo called rush hour,
we admire bicyclists’ allegro sprint to home and shower.
They weave across lanes of traffic, barely glance at
red lights and stop signs, but watch for sharps and flats
key to their ride. We close windows and turn on air,
change the station on the radio and, with great flair,
nestle into our comfort and look for their flaws
grump at their freedom and defiance of laws—
But all the while we envy the daring and strength
it takes to navigate busy byways at length.
and imagine ourselves instruments fit enough
to ride along, sleek and sweaty and tough.
We say a secret pledge to find our bikes of old,
restore them and ourselves, take heart and grow bold.
My blog poems are rough drafts.
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